


Empty Heart like an Empty Life

by oriolevent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Happy Ending, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Murder Husbands, Necromancy, No offence is meant to the state of Idaho, Sad Peter, just a little bit tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6556894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oriolevent/pseuds/oriolevent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year since Peter came back to life, and things are low-key terrible. At least he knows Stiles is alive, though. Even if he never came back for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Heart like an Empty Life

**Author's Note:**

> 11/05/16: Edited for grammar and spelling. I reread this and couldn't believe how many mistakes there were. It should be fine now!!!

The dim yellow lights that hung down from the ceiling didn’t hide the fact that the bar was filthy from Peter. He had only stopped in to covertly charge his phone under a table, sitting with a bottle of beer for appearances sake. He would not have something from on tap, thank you very much, as the cleanliness of those glasses was not the least bit trustworthy. 

He was somewhere in northern Idaho. There hadn’t been any signs for a few miles, but the bar seemed to be on the fringe of a small town. It didn’t matter what it was called, he had no intentions of exploring it. There was a wendigo around, one that he’d been tracking for a few days, and once it was dead he would be able to get the hell out of this state. 

There were enough people in the bar that he didn’t stand out much, but he was eager to be out of there quickly. He was unplugging his phone — 80% charged seemed enough for now —when a woman wandered over to his table. “Hey,” she said, shifting her weight onto one foot so she could lean casually against the empty chair across from him. “You here all alone?”

She was pretty, in a midwestern sort of way. The instinct was to snap at her to mind her own business, utter some veiled threat about his partner being the jealous type. But instead, he looked at the empty chair, and gave her a moment of thoughtful consideration before replying. “Looks that way.” 

That seemed enough of an invitation since she slid down into the seat. Out of the corner of his eye Peter could see a table of women in the background where she had come from. They were all watching, giggling amongst themselves. This one seemed to be their envoy. “Haven’t seen you around here before. What brings you to town?” she asks, taking a sip from the drink she brought over with her. It’s bright orange and the double shot of rum in it makes his nose twitch.

He hummed, considering what story to tell her. “Just on a business trip,” he decided, nice and ambiguous. Though he couldn’t fathom what kind of business anyone could do around there, she didn’t seem to question it. In fact she smiled, maybe pleased that he could be a one-and-done kind of lay. 

She said something back, but he didn’t hear what it was. She had reached out and put her hand on the back of his, an idly flirtatious move, and suddenly he felt violently ill. 

As quick as he could manage he withdrew his hand to pick up his phone, and looked at it like there was something important on screen. Hopefully more rude than suspicious. “I’m sorry, but something’s come up, I’ve got to go,” he said, and without waiting for her reply he took his phone charger and made for the door. She and her friends could enjoy the rest of the night insulting his character. 

He started to feel a little better only when the cool night air hit him outside. He should have felt angry, he thought, at how he still can’t stomach the touch of other people. It would make things so much easier if he could. But instead, he only felt sad, and a little lost, and there was nothing to do about it.

His car was parked a ways down the road behind a closed gas station. Tracking was always easier on foot, and he was in no rush to find the wendigo. They weren’t the subtlest of creatures, and the stench of death they left behind made an obvious trail to follow. It was practically like following a neon sign.

He rounded the back of the bar, past the dumpsters and the bartender who was smoking in a doorway, watching him with only mild interest. The woods were dark and uninviting, and he took off between the trees. 

There was no point in shifting to his wolf form. Maybe if he had been in a greater hurry, he would have, but it would be at the expensive of his clothes, and he liked this outfit. The moon was full, anyway, and it gave him a bounce in his step as he followed the rotting trail through the forest. It was almost leisurely.

After a while he sniffed and caught the scent of the creature, rather than its prey, on the air. He paused to turn his phone to silent. Sensitive ears could still hear the vibrations, and he had no idea how good a wendigo’s hearing was — no interest in finding out, either. Though it was probably pointless to do this, he thought, sliding the phone back into the pocket of his jeans. It wasn’t like anyone would be calling. 

It had been almost a year since he had come back to life. The details of the event were a little hazy, but he remembered dying — some creature with big leathery wings, smelled horrible — and he remembered refusing to stay dead. The first few days after being revived were a bit of a blur. When he finally came to his senses he had been holed up in a cave in a forest in northern California, like an actual goddamned animal. Creeping back to civilization to steal clothes had been tricky. A very generous farmyard clothesline had played a part.

But since then, he had been alone. It wasn’t like he could call anyone. Who actually knew phone numbers these days? He had a burner and the only numbers in it were business contacts he had recently made. 

Though, he could admit that if he really tried, he could have found a way to reach his nephew on the east coast, at least. But he didn’t. Derek probably hadn’t even heard that he had died, and they had been out of touch for so many years, the call would be stranger than the news. It wasn’t like Derek was the one Peter wanted to see, anyways.

The idea that Stiles had died the same night he did had haunted him for a few months. It seemed likely, given what he knew. They had finally met their match, picked a fight that they couldn’t win. They were both too confident and knew it — they joked about it, sometimes. He being dead too was the only explanation that Peter had for a long time, the only one that made sense, seeing as Stiles hadn’t tracked him down himself. Dead or alive.

But as Peter drifted around the west coast, bouncing aimlessly through different supernatural communities, he started listening to the conversations around him. Talking to the right people helped. Eventually, he heard the name pass the lips of a guy at a bar in Medford. “Yeah, a mage, right? All by himself, it was weird.” The man lit a cigarette when Peter had dragged him outside. “Real angry guy. Pretty face, though. It’s a shame. Gave him my number but he never called.”

Peter had thanked him for the information, and left him with a broken jaw. He had the confirmation he needed that Stiles was alive, and what’s more, he was still taking on bounty jobs. Without him.

So, in a somewhat masochistic move, Peter hadn’t tracked him down. Knowing that Stiles was out there somewhere without him made his shift rise to the surface. It was hard to control it sometimes. But he was nothing if not excellent at holding a grudge, one that could override his animal instincts. The fact was that Stiles hadn’t found Peter, even if he had been dead for a while. Had he even tried? Peter couldn’t imagine a world in which the answer was no — and yet, if he had, Stiles would have been with him now. He never failed.

The feeling of missing pack was like a severed limb, but hey. At least he was the only one feeling it. Stiles had said once that he felt their bond too, but Peter had explained it was only due to his magic picking up on it. Such a thing wasn’t inherent in non-wolves. But for a while, he had thought — well, it didn’t matter what he thought. So he had gotten a phone with no important numbers in it, and started taking on jobs again too. 

He had taken on this bounty as a wendigo was a bit of an easy target. They were vicious but stupid, and easy to follow because of the mess they always left when they fed. He hadn’t been surprised to find that nobody had gone after it yet, when he read the post on the underground forums where such requests appeared. There wasn’t much fun to be had in chasing a wendigo, and the money was shit. Mostly, it would take someone out to the Middle of Nowhere, USA, and therefore nobody had caught the thing yet. 

That seemed to be more his speed these days, keeping out of cities and crowds of people. He liked being out in the forest, even in the dead of night. Though, stepping in a puddle of blood and gore, he could have done without. 

He glanced around for the source, and saw a mangled corpse nearby. Upon inspection, it was only a deer, but the work was clearly a wendigos. If it was eating animals, it was pretty desperate, and must not have been able to find any humans for some time. At least Peter knew he was on the right disgusting trail.

It only took a few hours before he could hear the sounds of a fight up ahead. He paused at the sound. Whoever the wendigo was scrapping with was putting up a good fight. It wasn’t just another kill, then. 

He stayed in the shadows as he approached, wary of being caught in the crossfire. In spite of it all, he actually did want the kill, just to make his trip up there worth it. Even if the pay was low, there was some satisfaction in it. He hadn’t always had this sense of doing right, he mused. Wonder when that had set in.

There were two people attacking the creature, from where he could see. They were moving a bit too fast for him to make them out, but they were both shifted. Wolves, clearly, and they looked quite alike. Perhaps they were twins? Regardless, they had a very similar build to himself, and he hesitated to interfere in a fight where he didn’t know his odds. 

They were doing an okay job trying to take the wendigo down, but it hadn’t worked yet. Peter saw their coordination was terrible, as if they had never worked together enough to build any sort of rapport. Some of their tactics looked sensible, at least. Some approaches he would use himself. Efficient, direct strikes before backing off. 

He could only watch them for so long before it became clear that they had no apparent plan for finishing off the creature. One of the wolves was knocked back into the trees, disappearing from view. Only then did Peter decide to step in. He would just demand the credit for the kill afterwards, in exchange for saving their asses. It shouldn’t be too hard, seeing how the wendigo was already worn down. 

And it wasn’t. He stalked up to the creature with his claws extended as it had its back turned to him, and Peter plunged them into its spine at the neck. Perhaps this was done a little too forcefully, or maybe it was just because the wendigo was weak from only feeding on wild animals, but its head broke clean off. Well, not clean. But off. 

It slumped down dead. Peter could hear the other wolves rallying, so he took a moment to go over to a large fern to try and wipe off some of the blood that had splattered onto him. It was a futile task, really. “So,” he started, turning back to the strange wolves. 

But all he saw were their backs in the distance as they ran off. He frowned after them, a little pissed at the lost opportunity to make them feel incompetent, but perhaps it was for the best. Only then did he look down at the ground. 

The wendigo’s head was gone.

“Very amusing,” he said flatly, before rolling his shoulders and taking off after them. Their trail was as blatant as the wendigo’s had been. It was probably due to the oozing head, but even so, these wolves had no grace whatsoever. They ploughed through the forest in a singular direction.

He caught up when they came near a road and stopped. It was still dark, no lights anywhere save for the headlights of a car that idled there. The wolves stopped around the back of the vehicle, standing strangely still. 

There was someone in the driver’s seat. Peter could only hope that it was their alpha, as when he called out to the wolves, they didn’t react in the slightest. He wondered if they were injured, though it seemed increasingly likely that they were under some sort of enchantment. He’d met a lot of werewolves in his life, and had never seen any behave like this. 

The car engine turned off. Peter took this as his cue to approach the door, wary of whoever might be inside. It swung open when he was just a few feet away, and someone climbed out. 

He should have guessed that it would be Stiles, honestly. In retrospect it was obvious. But in the moment, Peter was shocked, and froze in place the instant that familiar scent of magic, and pack, and long-suppressed _mate_ rolled over him.

He had made several plans about what he might do, the day he met Stiles again. Somehow it had seemed inevitable, but he had hoped for at least a few more years for the tenderness of their bonds to fade away. It was still too raw, and the instant his eyes were set of Stiles, they all came flaring back to life. 

But Stiles, on the other hand, did not look phased in the least to see him. In fact, he looked downright uninterested as his eyes ran up and down Peter, pausing on the wendigo blood splattered in a few places. That, at least, prompted a little wistful smile.

Before Peter could manage to get a word out, Stiles stepped up and kissed him. It was full of confidence — was he not expecting even a little bit of drama to their reunion? — but Peter lapped it up like a dying man. He pulled Stiles close, his head feeling light surrounded by his scent after so long without it. When he licked into Stiles’ mouth, the other startled, like he hadn’t expected that, but got back into the rhythm after a second.

When Stiles pulled back to take a breath, Peter got a good look at him. Saw how he’d changed. He looked tired, the shadows dark around his eyes, but he had a hardened resolve in his look that didn’t used to be there. It was near enough to make Peter’s heart ache. “Stiles,” he said, breathing out the word like it was some holy thing. He didn't even care.

“Whoa, what the fuck?!” Stiles responded by shoving Peter back so sharply that he lost his balance, and nearly hit the dirt by the side of the road. “Since when can you talk?”

The magic of the moment entirely ruined, Peter glanced up at the dark sky, as if willing it to explain why this night was so confusing. “Nice to see you too,” he said, and watched as Stiles’ expression went from horrified to perplexed. “I’m sensing some mixed feelings here, though I’m pleased to see you’re as spirited as ever.”

A moment lapsed between them as he waited for Stiles to finish figuring out whatever was going through his head. Finally, he saw his gaze go past Peter, to where the other wolves stood behind the car. “Oh my god,” he said, and even in the dark Peter could see him go a shade paler.

He turned and looked too. The wolves were facing him now, and he could finally see their faces.

They were…him.

There were two exact replicas of him, standing hauntingly still and staring back at him without any trace of expression on their faces. No wonder their fighting style had looked familiar — it was just a poor imitation of his own. 

“You made golems of me,” Peter realized, putting a hand over his heart as if he were touched. Truthfully, he was. Stiles had never used his magic to create entire people before. To bring random shit to life, sure, or on occasion to laugh in the face of death, but never to create someone — two someones, apparently — out of nothing. 

Stiles stepped forward and put his hands on either side of Peter’s face, as if proving to himself that he was real. “You were dead,” he said, still soft and disbelieving. “I’m sure of it, I couldn’t feel you anymore — and wyverns are scavengers, there was no way it didn’t eat your body.”

Peter grimaced. So that was what they had been fighting. He knew it had been something with wings. “Perhaps it didn’t like the taste of werewolf,” he joked, but Stiles didn’t smile. “I was dead, yes. I don’t know why you’re as surprised as you are,” he tilted his head ever so slightly, enjoying the feeling of Stiles’ hands on him again, “defying death is kind of your area.”

Stiles seemed to mentally stumble over this. “It is,” he said, sounding suddenly angry. “So who the fuck brought you back? Who touched you?” He looked around the edges of Peter, as he did when he was trying to see the fringes of spellwork. A shuffling noise came from the golems at his demands. They seemed to react to his emotions, though they didn’t do much other than shudder.

“Nobody,” Peter consoled him. He wasn’t about to pretend that Stiles’ possessive streak didn’t do it for him. He was almost put out by how quickly he felt himself reacting to it again. “You think I’d spend years with a necromancer without picking up a few things, in case of an emergency? Please, Stiles. I thought you’d have more faith in me than that.”

Whatever had been stopping Stiles from believing it before seemed to break at that. He flung himself forward, pushing his way into Peter’s jacket so that he could wrap his arms around him properly. “You’re brilliant,” he breathed, face pushed into Peter’s neck. The wolf rumbled in response, rubbing his cheek on the top of Stiles’ head. He had forgotten what Stiles’ scent was like without his own mixed in. It was lovely, but together, they were even better. “‘m not a necromancer,” Stiles added, voice muffled.

Peter laughed. That had almost been Stiles’ catchphrase, before. “Animation magic, whatever you call it. It’s terribly useful, I can admit that now.” 

They stood in the darkness for a few minutes like that. Peter still had questions — he wasn’t about to let what had happened go, but everything seemed less urgent than it had before. Stiles was glad he was there. He hadn’t abandoned him on purpose. Everything else could wait.

“I’ve got a room at a motel a couple of miles from here,” Stiles said after a while. “Come with me?”

“Of course.” Peter couldn’t muster up any of his usual sarcasm. He still felt drunk on Stiles’ presence and their bond, which seemed delighted to be back in place. But he looked back behind the car. “What about them?”

“Oh, uh, right,” Stiles stuttered, embarrassed. With a wave of his hand the golems turned into soil in midair, falling down into two neat piles on the road. Peter wished he hadn’t seen that.

“You know we’re going to discuss them,” he said, watching Stiles brush the soil out of the way. “I have so many questions.”

“I have no doubt,” Stiles said, with a real smile this time. He came back over and caught Peter in another kiss, slow and warm. Very much alive. It was somehow much more passionate than the frantic make-out he had been greeted with.

“Wait, hold on,” Peter said as they pulled apart, Stiles reaching for the door of the car. “Did you fuck my golems?”

Stiles’ eyes went wide for a second before he groaned. “Oh my god, just get in the car.”

**Author's Note:**

> While I have been writing the ending to Parade Upon Your Victory, I dreamed this shit up and had to write it. Why am I eternally here for sad Peter? I love it, though.
> 
> But the question is...DID HE DO IT???


End file.
